


tu es à moi

by thescrewtapedemos



Category: Electronic Dance Music RPF
Genre: Dirty Talk, Fluff and Angst, Friends With Benefits, Language Kink, M/M, Pining, and porn
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-02-19
Updated: 2016-02-19
Packaged: 2018-05-21 16:45:53
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 9,049
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/6058654
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/thescrewtapedemos/pseuds/thescrewtapedemos
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>There are worse ideas than this one but not many and Hugo can't bring any of them to mind right now.</p>
            </blockquote>





	tu es à moi

**Author's Note:**

> 'hey let's write language kink' i can't speak french!! so there you go. also don't ask me about the timeline for this fic because i've got nothing  
> enjoy xoxo

They’ve been sort of doing the friends with benefits thing for about half a year when Hugo – _accidentally,_ he swears – speaks French while hooking up with Porter. 

It happens in France because it would only happen in France; Hugo’s gotten immeasurably better with his English since his first fumbling foray into the public. He hasn’t fucked up bad enough to regress into flustered French in a year or more. And he doesn’t mean to do it either, though he probably would have if he’d thought of it. He just hadn’t thought- and Porter hadn’t seemed to care, when it was just Hugo idly chatting to his parents or something and-

Hugo thinks he can be forgiven for forgetting what language he’s supposed to be speaking with Porter’s hot, wet mouth around his cock.

Porter’s in France for a small run of international shows, something that barely amounts to a tour, but he’s in France for three days staying with Hugo. It’s the longest he’s been near Porter in… ages, months probably, Hugo’s half-wild with how much he’d wanted this. Wanted Porter. 

Porter pulls off and pants. His lips are a mess of saliva and precum, raw and red and mouthing messily down to nuzzle into Hugo’s hip for a moment. He comes back up a moment later and Hugo’s cock twitches and swells at the look on his face, dark-eyed and flicking up to meet his gaze for a moment before his mouth is sliding back down on Hugo’s cock. 

His fucking mouth. Hugo wants to put his cock in it every time Porter presses a stupid pen against his lips or smiles his awful half-grin. Wants to smear precum all over his full lower lip and then fuck into him until drool runs down his chin and his voice is ruined. 

“God, yes, like that,” Hugo hisses out, punched-out and desperate. “Porter, your fucking _mouth_ -,”

Porter chokes. Chokes and pulls off and his eyes are big in his face like they hadn’t been before, wide and lust-struck when he stares up at Hugo. 

He dives right back in a moment later and Hugo cries out because there's suddenly something desperate in the motion of Porter's mouth on him. Like he can't get enough, like he's desperate and greedy for it. It's brutal, brilliant, aching goodness and the almost-there brush of teeth. 

“Fuck,” he moans, “so good, just like that-,” 

Porter chokes again but this time he doesn't stop, forces himself farther down until Hugo can feel the back of his throat around his dick. He's whining, low and wrecked and beautiful, low vibrations of sound against the head of his cock that punch out a noise from him as well. His hand tightens in Porter’s hair without his permission and he barely has the coherence to stop his hips from bucking up into the wet heat of Porter’s throat. 

Orgasm crests in him too soon and he yanks feebly on Porter’s hair for a second. 

“Going to-,” he manages but Porter makes another noise, broken and humming against Hugo’s cock, and Hugo is gone. He comes like an earthquake. Porter pulls back sometime in the middle of it, so that when Hugo finally blinks back his vision there’s come streaking across Porter’s mouth, pearly and dripping and filthy. 

“You’re so,” he says nonsensically and reaches out to- fuck, he doesn’t know, he just wants to touch. Porter doesn’t give him the chance, his head is falling back and his mouth opening and his hand is shoving into his unzipped pants. For a moment he’s moving, and then he shudders and stills. The only noise he makes is a final, tiny gasp for air that hits Hugo in the gut like a bullet. 

Slowly he leans forward and rests his forehead against Hugo’s thigh. His breath is still fast, hot and damp against the denim. 

“Did you just,” Hugo asks and it’s the combination of the feeling of his words in his mouth – French is lighter on his tongue than English, he doesn’t know how to explain it – and the tiny shudder that goes through Porter’s back that clues him in. 

“Shit,” he says in English. “Porter, are you...?”

“Shut up,” Porter says and lurches back, away from Hugo's leg. He grinning but it looks more wary than amused. Hugo blinks at him. He feels orgasm-stupid and slow and a little bit awestruck. Actually his chest feels a little tight and his heart flutters weirdly when Porter’s eyes slide past his face to focus somewhere past his left ear. 

“That was-,” Hugo begins. 

“Weird, I know,” Porter barks out and Hugo frowns at him, reaches down absently and tucks himself back into his pants. He slides down to sit next to Porter and nudges him with an elbow until Porter finally looks at him from the corner of his eye. 

“Hot, I was going to say,” he says faux-patiently. Porter squints at him for a moment and then looks away. Hugo nudges him again, harder this time. “I mean it.” 

Porter’s red when he finally turns to look fully at Hugo but he’s smiling crooked and mostly genuine. 

“You think it’s hot when I, what, speak French?” Hugo asks and when Porter shrugs through his blush Hugo shrugs back. It’s a little bit hilarious, there’s still come on the corner of Porter’s mouth and when Hugo sneaks a look down there’s absolutely a spreading wet patch on the front of Porter’s jeans. 

His heart does a flip in his chest – _he’d done that just by speaking_ – but he swallows that down and puts on something that passes remarkably well for nonchalance when he speaks. 

“Alright, cool.”

* * *

So falling into some sort of nebulous friends-with-sometimes-benefits arrangement with the person he’s been maybe a little bit in love with for years had been kind of a terrible idea. 

Hugo is aware of that. He’s not an idiot, after all. 

Just in love. 

No big deal. 

He gets this and it’s more than he ever thought he would, so he’s fine. He gets Porter’s friendship and also sometimes, when they’re single and within reach of each other, his mouth around Hugo’s cock. Porter’s cock in his mouth or hands. Touches that Hugo doesn’t let himself imagine are more but that he could, if he were willing to hurt himself like that. 

Not a big deal at all.

* * *

The next time it happens is the next day, in Hugo’s little studio. They’re messing around with songs, sort of. Lazy and unhurried, elbowing into each other’s spaces and reaching across to argue over what would work better. It devolves into making out, Hugo pressed back into the chair and Porter leaning in over him. 

Hugo sometimes thinks, when he’s feeling particularly masochistic and sentimental, that he would be perfectly content to kiss Porter for the rest of his life. There’s nothing like it, Porter’s soft lips and tongue and how he always tastes like coffee or candy. The weight of him straddling Hugo’s legs or under him or against a wall or stolen in quiet moments between sets at shows. Anywhere Porter would let him, any time at all. 

He pulls away for a moment of air and Porter’s face catches his attention. His eyes are dark and distant and glazed, mouth swollen and red almost like it gets when he’s been sucking Hugo’s cock. 

He wants this, Hugo decides. He wants to do something for Porter. 

“I could kiss you for hours,” he says in French and watches the impact of his words in the way Porter jerks in surprise and then his pupils blow wide, his hands suddenly tight where they’d been braced on Hugo’s thigh and shoulder. 

“That’s,” he says shakily and then pulls in a desperate breath. “That’s not cool, dude, you’re just messing with me. Saying random shit.” 

Hugo shakes his head. He can’t look away from Porter’s face, the flush high in his cheeks, the trembling breath he pulls in. 

“I wouldn’t,” he says in English and his tone is too desperate, too tellingly needy. “It’s just, I’m just saying what I normally say, you know.” 

Porter closes his eyes in a reflexive flinch when Hugo reaches up and tentatively curls a hand in his hair. 

“Okay,” he says and leans in again, presses his lips to Hugo’s and pulls back again just as quick. “Okay, fuck, okay.” 

“Yes,” Hugo says and gently pushes Porter back, stands up and moves to sit on the floor because he doesn’t trust the chair to hold both of them. Porter follows willingly, settles straddling across his legs easily when Hugo nudges him in suggestion. He’s watching Hugo, rapt and breathing rapid. 

“You look so good like this,” Hugo says in French and his dick twitches at the way Porter’s eyes slam closed. He’s red almost instantly, hands fluttering uncertainly at his sides before he settles on reaching down and unbuttoning his jeans and working them a little down his thighs. 

He’s already hard – not that Hugo isn’t mostly there himself, spurred on by the desperation in Porter’s breathing – and tenting the cotton of his boxers. For a few moments he pauses there, massaging over his covered erection with shaky fingers. 

“I love what this does to you,” Hugo whispers into the space between them and Porter makes another desperate noise, hands clumsy in pulling his cock free of his boxers. Belatedly Hugo reaches down and starts working himself out of his pants too. He’s already hard enough to be aching for release. 

“How much you want it, it’s crazy, you love it,” he says and Porter’s noise is agonized. He’s jerking himself off desperately fast, so hard the obscene noise of skin on skin almost drowns out his rapid breathing. 

Hugo abandons his cock for a moment, lets it fall against his stomach to leak precum on his shirt, and seizes one of Porter’s hands. Porter falters and watches in confusion until Hugo pulls it to his mouth and licks across the palm. 

Porter’s head falls back and he moans, loud and obscene. His throat is a column of pristine skin and Hugo fights off the impulse to flip them and bite down, suck marks there until bruises bloom dark against his skin. Instead he sucks Porter’s fingers into his mouth for a moment and wets them thoroughly, pulls back and licks his palm again, getting it as wet as he can. 

“There,” he says in French and lets go, “It’ll feel better now.” 

Porter hisses out another piteous noise and wraps the hand Hugo had licked around his cock, begins to jerk off again. Hugo watches. Toys with his cock, gentle up-down motions. Orgasm is edging closer but it’s mostly watching Porter, the slick obscene noises of Porter’s wet hand around his dick. 

He lasts a minute maybe before he reaches out and cups Porter’s hip, urges him in closer. Porter stops in his desperate movement for a moment, confused but obeying Hugo’s hands, moves closer until their cocks are brushing in electric jolts of pleasure. 

Porter cries out when Hugo wraps a hand around them both, bucks his hips up and fucks his cock into Hugo’s fist. It’s not slick, it’s rough friction edging into pain and Hugo has to fight not to let his eyes roll back with it because it feels _so good_. Porter doesn’t stop, just keeps rolling his hips up into Hugo’s grip and making noises that sound almost like they hurt. 

“God, yes, just like that, keep doing that,” Hugo hisses out in French and Porter sobs for breath. He’s a mess above him, red and open-mouthed, gasping for air, bowed backwards for leverage with his thrusts. His hands are tight to the point of hurting on Hugo’s thighs for balance. 

“I,” Hugo gasps out because he can’t seem to drag enough air in, orgasm coming hard and fast in the tightness of his balls and the sharp jolting pleasure of Porter’s motion. “I want to fuck you someday, oh god, I want to, oh _fuck_.” 

The last word comes out in English and Porter cries out, so loud Hugo has a moment where he’s incredibly thankful for the soundproofing of his studio. His hips still and suddenly come is stripping Hugo’s shirt, hot and wet. 

“Shit,” Hugo says, in English again, and wriggles back a little bit to give himself room to fist his own cock. He jerks himself off brutally quick, orgasm already so close he can’t slow his breathing. 

It’s looking up at Porter that does it. He looks ruined, face flushed and bangs sticking to his face with sweat, shirt rumpled. He hasn’t put his cock away yet and there’s come on his hands that he’s absently licking away. 

Hugo closes his eyes to keep that image preserved forever and comes. 

When he comes back to himself it’s to Porter trying gingerly to stand and a shirt covered in rapidly cooling come. 

“This is disgusting,” he says, dismayed, and peels the wet shirt away from his chest. Porter laughs so hard he falls back to sit on the ground.

* * *

They don’t talk about it, after that. They finish their joke of a song with more elbows, unabated friendliness and none of the awkwardness Hugo had been a little scared of. 

Porter leaves the next day because he has a show in England and Hugo has no excuse to follow him. He wishes he did but instead he just smiles and waves when Porter finishes thanking Hugo’s parents profusely for letting him stay and trots out the door. Hugo knows the routine, knows they’ll go back to texting and calling and emailing back and forth like they’re nothing more than friends. 

He goes back to his studio and it still smells like sex, like Porter. He opens the door and sets a fan going, sprays the whole thing down with air freshener until it smells like artificial fruit and nothing like Porter at all.

* * *

_england suxxxxxx,_ Porter texts him the next day and Hugo grins at his phone for way longer than he’s proud of.

* * *

_i can come up to Birmingham when ur playing_ , Porter texts him when Hugo’s next in the states. He stares at the screen for a long time and tries to sort out what he feels. 

He wants it. Of course he does; he wants Porter there watching, wants to take him back to the afterparty and then to his hotel room. He wants to kiss Porter in the dark backstage where no one is _going_ to see them but someone always _could_. He wants to bring Porter on stage and wrap an arm around his waist and not worry about what Porter or anyone else will think. 

He wants a lot of things. He's a lucky son of a bitch; some of them he even gets. 

He sighs. 

_can’t_ , he types out, _leaving too soon for next show_. 

It’s not like it’s a lie, but technically speaking it’s a little less than the truth. He could make time, or get Porter onto the bus with him. There are ways he could do this. 

_:(_ , Porter sends and Hugo turns off his phone so he doesn’t text anything back.

* * *

“So what are you wearing?” Porter asks the second Hugo answers the phone and Hugo trips in the middle of the hotel hallway on nothing at all. He must make some kind of involuntary sound because when he manages to regain equilibrium Porter's laughing loud and obnoxious through the tinny phone speaker. 

“Jesus, Porter,” he snaps and fumbles the door to his room open, closing it solidly behind him. He’s bright red and suddenly insanely grateful Porter’s somewhere across the country right now. 

“You didn’t answer the question,” Porter says and Hugo’s breath catches for a moment before he’s laughing, forcing it nonchalant and amused instead of the nervous and confused it wants to come out as. They don’t do this – phone sex, or anything like that. It’s always been strictly in-person and Hugo wonders, suddenly uneasy, if Porter’s just making a shitty joke. 

“Come on, man,” he says cautiously. 

“You come on,” Porter counters and even through shitty speakers and with an entire country between them Hugo recognizes that voice. Throaty, a little bit breathless. It’s his voice when he’s pressing up into Hugo’s space in some dark corner, asking which hotel room they’ll go back to this time. 

“Shit,” Hugo says, punched out, and fumbles with the button to his jeans. “We’re doing this?” 

He means it to come out flippant but it comes out questioning and Porter hesitates for a long moment, long enough for Hugo to feel the cold sting of- something. Maybe rejection, although that's _stupid_ because Porter had come to _him_ for this. 

“Nothing in the studio is going right,” Porter says at last and Hugo waits. “I don't know, you make me feel better.” 

“I give you orgasms,” Hugo corrects sarcastically and tries not to put together what Porter really means. That Hugo is a convenient distraction. 

“That _too_ ,” Porter says and Hugo can practically hear the eye roll. “I mean, you are like, sort of my best friend. The orgasms are a fun bonus.”

Hugo decidedly ignores the roll in his stomach. Some awful hybrid of relief at Porter's words - _you are like, sort of my best friend_ \- and embarrassing schoolyard rejection. He wants more than friendship but that's hardly new and so he ignores it.

“So we are doing this,” he teases, kicking his pants off entirely. His cock is starting to swell already just at the thought of this, imagining whether Porter’s hard already on his end of the line. Whether he’s got his cock in hand or hasn’t even undone his jeans yet. 

“Yeah,” Porter breathes and then laughs, quick and nervous and turned on. “I mean. So what are you wearing?” 

“Not my pants,” Hugo says without thinking and is rewarded by startled, more genuine laughter. “You?” he asks, trying to cover up his fluster. 

“Nothing at all,” Porter says, sounding suddenly serene. Hugo can’t help the noise that he makes, turns his head away from the phone so maybe Porter won’t hear just how much the mental image is turning Hugo on. Porter, naked, probably alone in a dim hotel room. Hugo wonders if he’s hard yet, doesn’t even have to guess what his cock would look like. 

Curved, flushed red, smearing precum across Porter’s stomach or fist. His body tight with tense arousal. Hugo wonders if he’d been touching himself when he’d called Hugo. 

He hooks his boxers off around his cock, takes himself in hand for a moment and slides his thumb across the head of his cock, gathering slick precum and working it down his shaft. It feels so good he hisses in an involuntary breath and then like an echo Porter is breathing in sharply down the line. 

“How are we doing this?” Hugo asks and it would be awkward but he’s too turned on, too preoccupied by his dick in his hand. Belatedly he topples back on the bed and stretches out almost luxuriously, notes absently that he can hear rustling fabric in the background of Porter’s end of the line too. 

“I thought you could,” and Porter’s voice breaks for a moment, stutters into a little moan that Hugo knows so well. His noise when Hugo’s wrapped a hand around his cock after hours of kissing and kissing. “You could talk in, y’know, French?” 

Hugo can feel the heat of Porter’s blush through the phone and so he laughs, breathless and only a little bit mocking. 

“Oui, oui, anything for you, monsieur,” he says and Porter makes an offended noise that doesn’t even pretend to not also be aroused. 

“Dick,” Porter says breathlessly and Hugo begins to jerk himself off again, tight and regular because he doesn’t want to wait but he knows it’ll be over too soon for him. It always is. 

“You love it,” Hugo says in French and relishes the hitched, surprised moan Porter lets out. It’s small and sweet and Hugo wishes absently he could record this to listen to later. 

“Yeah,” Porter hums, “Whatever you just said, yes, yeah.” 

“You’re so easy for this,” Hugo continues and tightens his hand around himself. It feels almost too good. 

“Fuck,” Porter breathes, barely a crackle of noise down the line. Hugo’s cock twitches. 

“I want you,” he says lowly, syllables slurring together with how hurried they are to escape. “You have no idea, I want to fuck your mouth and come all over your face, I want it _so bad_.” 

Porter doesn’t speak this time, just moans loud and wanton and genuine. Hugo gasps for air, speeds his hand on his cock and ignores the tightening wave that means orgasm is approaching far too quickly. He wonders absently, in the part of himself not trying desperately to pick words from the filthy hot rush of _want fuck Porter need_ that’s all that’s become of his thoughts, what Porter looks like now. 

He knows something like what Porter could look like, filthy and sated against crisp hotel sheets. He doesn’t have to imagine. Doesn’t have to work to bring to mind the soft-lit hollows and curves of his body, his hips and thighs, his cock wet and red in his fist. Shoulders bowed and head back, wet mouth open and shining in the light. The flex of his arms as he jerks himself off, desperately fast, impossibly beautiful. 

It’s how they’d first hooked up, adrenaline-drunk and horny and alone in a hotel room; Porter post-show and wet through with sweat, Hugo dry-mouthed with want. 

Hugo hisses out a curse and stops abruptly, presses his hand in a fist against his thigh and breathes deeply. He’d nearly come, way too soon. He can hear Porter’s breathing in his ear, frantic and labored and punctuated with soft grunts of pleasure. 

“I want to make you come,” Hugo says quietly and Porter groans, heartfelt and low. 

“Jesus fucking Christ,” he chokes out into the silence, voice edged with static and still so fucking hot Hugo’s dick twitches and he almost comes right there, untouched. 

“I need you,” Hugo grits out, thoughtless French, words leaving his mouth as he thinks them, “God, I want you, you’re so beautiful, I love- fuck, just, so _much._ ” 

Porter moans in his ear and Hugo closes his eyes and wraps his hand back around his cock and pretends. 

Pretends Porter is moaning because what Hugo’s saying is what he wants to hear, that he’d called because he’d wanted Hugo instead of a convenient voice, that he would say it all back if only he understood. He jerks himself off holding onto that thought, fierce and miserable and wanting. 

He babbles in French, incoherent words, things he can’t remember the moment after he’s said them. _Need, I love it, you’re so, please._ Porter’s noises on the other end get quieter and quieter in answer, increasing desperation and deep gasps for air. 

“Going to come,” Porter gasps out and then he goes silent except the sharp noise of sheets rustling. 

“Shit,” Hugo says in English and then his own orgasm is hitting him in a tidal wave, balls tightening and eyes rolling back. 

Porter’s breathing is back to even when Hugo’s capable of paying attention again. He huffs out a little snicker when Hugo wipes his hand on his sheets and makes a little noise of disgust. 

“Screw you,” Hugo says and rolls his eyes even though Porter can’t see him. He feels scooped out and emptied by his orgasm, by all of this. Suddenly he’s tired, eyes closing of their own volition as he leans back carefully. 

“Nice,” Porter mocks and then hesitates. “Good talk,” he continues eventually and Hugo realizes he’s about to hang up. That he’s about to disappear again. 

There’s a sharp blossom of hurt in his chest. 

“Hey, wait,” he says and forces his eyes open again. “You said you were uh, having problems with your album? Talk me through it, maybe I can help.” 

“Oh,” Porter says and he sounds a little surprised. “Yeah, sure. It’s not like a technical problem, I’ve got all that down, it’s more of an ideological thing I’m running into-,” 

Hugo settles his head back and covers his eyes with a hand. Porter rambles in his ear, increasingly incensed and animated and everything Hugo wants. 

He's in trouble, Hugo realizes.

* * *

He's always known he's in love with Porter. 

In the beginning, when it had been just shaky Skype calls and adolescent excitement, the adrenaline of the music... Hugo almost had hope, then. Wondered if maybe somewhere in the rush Porter had feelings too.

There'd never been any indication and Hugo had tried to forget about it all. Had almost succeeded until that feverish hotel night where he'd learned what kissing Porter felt like. For a moment he'd had hope again, and then Porter had said _friends with benefits_ and Hugo had realized it was the best he'd ever get.

He stares down at the phone in his hand. 

He needs to stop this, he knows now. It's not fair and not enough, he wants too much and it hurts too bad. What he needs to do is break it off, go back to just friends if he can. Give himself the chance to move on.

Decisively he flicks over to Porter's international number and presses the call button. 

“Hey,” he says to the voicemail. Idly he notices that his voice is surprisingly calm. “When are you in France next? We should hang out.”

* * *

“I was planning on asking you if I could stay a few days,” Porter tells him later when he calls back. He sounds pleased. Hugo wonders how he should feel, if the knotting tension in his gut is normal, if anything about this situation is normal. “I could come up in a week.” 

“Cool,” Hugo says and he's still surprised when the words come out even. “Let me know when your flight touches down.”

* * *

“I need to ask you something,” Porter says before Hugo’s even set his bag down on the ground. 

Hugo closes his mouth. He’d been about to say something similar, some stumbling attempt to bring up their relationship. Instead he lets the bag fall and wheels to look at Porter more fully. 

Porter’s nervous, he notes. He won’t meet Hugo’s gaze, inspecting a thumbnail instead. His body is too tense to truly be as nonchalant as his tone had pretended to be. For a moment he glances at Hugo and then back at his hand. Suddenly he’s blushing and some confused heat rises in Hugo’s stomach. Pavlovian, by now, his reaction to any flush in Porter’s cheeks. 

“Ask away,” Hugo says and crosses his arms. His own attempt at nonchalance, he feels, is significantly better than Porter’s. 

“I want you to fuck me,” Porter says to his hands and for a blank moment Hugo can’t process what he’d just said. He stares instead, taking in the deepening blush and the way Porter is looking in his direction without looking at him at all. 

“Shit,” Hugo says at last, and then when that doesn’t adequately convey the sentiment, “ _Merde_.” 

Porter’s shoulders go up defensively and all at once he’s looking at Hugo, expression tight and angry. 

“Well if you don’t want to you could just say so,” he says nastily and turns away. 

For a moment Hugo considers letting him go. It’s what he’d planned on doing, after all, stopping all this. Trying to put things back the way they were before, make things right, stop it from hurting quite so much. Giving himself a chance to get over Porter and move on. 

But he’d never get a chance like this again. 

“No, wait,” Hugo says desperately and snags Porter by the sleeve, pulling him up short. Jesus, Hugo’s already half-hard just from the thought. “I mean, yes, I would? I just can’t believe that- yes, Porter, Jesus, _yes_.” 

Porter stares back at him for a long time. Slowly his shoulders come down and the tightness in his mouth relaxes into the awful half smile that Hugo can never see without imagining his cock in Porter’s mouth. 

“Was that English?” he asks and Hugo huffs, dropping Porter’s sleeve and stepping away. 

“Well if you don’t want me to,” he begins and Porter sighs, long and low and put-upon. It’s only the grin peeking from the corner of his mouth that saves him from a righteous punch to the arm. 

“Alright,” Hugo continues and runs a hand through his hair distractedly. “Okay I need to buy more lube, but… whenever you want.” 

“Tonight,” Porter says with finality and thoughtlessly Hugo almost argues. The determined, pleased expression on Porter’s face dissuades him. 

Hugo watches Porter walk away towards the bathroom, bag of toiletries in hand. Regret is a bitter taste in his mouth already but more important by far is the hot want pooling in his stomach. He’s going to hurt over this later, he’s self-aware enough to know that, but in the meanwhile he’ll get this.

* * *

“I thought we were putting things in my ass,” Porter demands breathlessly and Hugo pulls off of his cock for a moment to roll his eyes. 

“You’re so tense you’d break my dick,” he retorts and punctuates himself with a lick to the head of Porter’s cock that turns whatever smart comment Porter had been about to make into a stuttering whine and a quickly aborted thrust. Hugo hides his smile against Porter’s thigh and starts licking again, soft and rapid until he can feel Porter’s thigh quivering under his hand and the noises coming from above him have become more needy than impatient. 

“Okay, I’m going to put a finger in you now,” he tells Porter and hopes the smile that breaks across his face when Porter’s response is a desperate noise isn’t too triumphant. 

The sound of the lube cap snapping open doesn’t mask Porter’s heavy breathing, Hugo’s own breathing forced slow and even. Hugo spreads it over his fingers, warms it between his hands while he studies Porter spread out like some pornographic centerfold all for him. 

He’s flushed, cock leaking against his belly, shiny-wet with precum and Hugo’s saliva. One hand knotted tight in the blankets, the other resting tense and nervous against his thigh. Pupils blown, mouth vicious red and wet where he’d been biting his lip in an attempt to stay quiet. His nipples are peaked, pebbled and pretty, and when Hugo reaches out with a slick hand and tweaks one of them Porter makes a wordless displeased noise and slaps at his hand. 

“Alright,” Hugo says and bends back down, sprawls comfortable across Porter’s legs and lays a cheek against his thigh. Porter’s cock twitches and Hugo touches it leisurely, runs a slick fingertip down the vein tracing the underside and watches Porter’s stomach tighten with it. He keeps going, drags gentle fingers over Porter’s balls and then dips back to trace a gentle fingertip over Porter’s hole. 

“Just one, for now,” Hugo says softly and looks up to see Porter nodding. His eyes are big and dark and a little nervous but mostly hot with arousal. 

They flutter closed when Hugo presses his middle finger in, slow and steady until the join of his fingers stops him. He’s hot, Hugo notes wildly, hot and velvety soft inside. So tight around his finger even with the lube, dragging against his skin in a way that makes his dick twitch in anticipation. 

Porter doesn’t make a sound the whole time and when Hugo looks up to check in again his eyes are still closed, mouth pinched into a frown that looks almost pained. 

“Alright?” Hugo asks quietly. Porter opens his eyes slowly, expression distant and far away. 

“Feels weird,” he says and his voice is as distant as his expression. When Hugo pulls out a little and thrusts back in, just a gentle rocking motion, he hisses and his eyes close again, hands suddenly tight white around their handfuls of blanket. “Don’t stop,” he continues roughly and Hugo continues to fuck his finger in and out until the drag is less, Porter’s hole accepting him in. 

“Another one?” he asks and is vaguely surprised by how hoarse his voice is. 

“Yeah,” Porter answers, rapid and just as hoarse. Hugo pulls his finger free gently and pours on more lube. 

The squelch as he spreads it across his fingers again is obscene and when he looks up Porter’s watching him through hooded eyes, dark and glittering. His lip is caught in his teeth, and he draws in a shivering breath when Hugo lies back down and traces around Porter’s hole again. It’s wet still but not enough, not stretched enough yet. Hugo doesn’t want to hurt Porter, wants to make this the best night he can. 

Porter makes a thin noise when Hugo presses two fingers into him, slow and careful past the first knuckle. It’s restless and when Hugo looks up Porter’s head is turned to the side, neck a tense curve with stark tendons Hugo wants to put his mouth against. Instead he turns away because more absorbing are his fingers slick with lube disappearing into Porter’s body, the tight softness of Porter around him, Hugo can barely breathe. He’s so hard it hurts already. 

“You good?” he asks, strained, and Porter makes a whimpering noise that turns into a sharp, surprised moan when Hugo crooks his fingers cautiously inside him and thrusts gently. 

“Fuck,” Porter moans, voice broken, head thrown back. From this angle Hugo can’t see his face and he pauses until Porter bucks a little against his fingers, cock bobbing hard and prominent with the motion. “Don’t _stop_.” 

“Holy shit,” Hugo mumbles and keeps going, turns his fingers until he’s pressing them against Porter’s prostate and keeps thrusting. Harder and harder, until his fingers are gliding inside Porter’s ass, until Porter’s breathing is only so many broken sobbing noises. 

“One more,” he says, almost a question. 

“Yes, yes,” Porter says, rapid and desperate and slurred. “Yes, _now_.” 

“Shit,” Hugo says and pulls his fingers free again. The cling of Porter around him makes him hiss out a breath and his hands are shaking when he applies more lube, a fine tremble as he rubs his fingers together cursorily to warm them. 

Porter cries out when Hugo presses three fingers against his hole, a loud whine that increases in volume as Hugo presses them in and in until they bottom out. His eyes are tight shut, eyelashes wet when Hugo looks, but he’s still hard and when Hugo pauses he bucks again, more coordinated and infinitely more desperate. 

“ _Merde_ ,” Hugo hisses against Porter’s thigh and thrusts in again and again, crooks his fingers as best he can. He’s so fucking hard, he wants to come so badly. 

“Hugo,” Porter manages at last and a clumsy hand in Hugo’s hair distracts him from his fingers thrusting into Porter’s ass. “Hugo, c’mon, _please_.” 

“Now?” he asks hoarsely. His fingers are gliding in, lube wet and dripping from Porter’s hole, but he wants to be sure. 

“Yes, yes,” Porter gasps and his hand is knotting in Hugo’s hair, pulling at him. Carefully as he can Hugo pulls his hand free, the seemingly-involuntary disappointed noise Porter makes going through him in a wave of heat. 

Porter pulls him up until they’re face to face, yanks him down into a messy, desperate kiss. It’s more teeth and tongue than finesse and Hugo answers it, just as wanting, just as frantic. Porter’s hands are everywhere, in his hair and pressing shaking fingers into his sides, his hips. Uncoordinated, perfect, so hot. 

“You should get up, hands and knees,” Hugo says vaguely between kisses and Porter nods, sits up when Hugo does and scrambles gracelessly to his hands and knees. Hugo tries to help but mostly just presses his hands to every part of Porter’s bare skin he can reach. It leaves wet fingerprints all over his skin. Porter settles into place, back arched a little, and looks over his shoulder. 

Hugo takes a moment just to look, to memorize Porter like this. 

He’s red, sweat shining on his skin already. Broad back, soft hips that Hugo knows fit beautifully into his hands. Eyes dark and lips swollen from kisses and biting down on them. Hugo can see his ass too, his thighs spread for balance, his cock bobbing between them. His hole, shining wet and slick with lube. Porter makes a soft noise when Hugo reaches out thoughtlessly and rubs a thumb over it, feels the heat and slight pucker. 

He means to say something but words don’t come. He just wants to touch, wants to be skin to skin with Porter, so he settles himself between Porter’s spread legs instead, leans forward and blankets Porter’s body with his own. It settles his own dick, hard and aching, in the slick cleft of Porter’s ass. 

“Fuck,” Porter groans and Hugo grinds his dick in, sliding in the slick of lube. Momentarily the head of his cock catches on Porter's hole and Porter _yells_ , a wordless needy noise. Hugo's cock twitches and for a moment he thinks he's going to come right there, before he can even get his cock in him. 

“Fuck,” Hugo grits out, low and guttural, and switches to French. “God, your ass, Porter.” 

Porter whines desperately and his arms buckle and Hugo's next grinding thrust sends him down on his chest. Suddenly his ass is up in the air and his back a bowed curve Hugo wants to bite down on, mark up with his teeth. When Hugo thrusts again he stays there, hips immediately jolting back in some belated attempt to roll into Hugo's thrusts. Hugo pauses to give him a chance to get up but he stays in place, shaking and making low trembling noises that go straight to Hugo's cock. 

“God,” Hugo gasps out and grinds again, the new angle giving him the perfect view of his cock sliding against Porter's round ass. “Shit, Porter, are you ready?”

Porter doesn't answer except to make another low moan and hitch his hips back again. It takes Hugo a moment to remember that he's speaking French. Porter's broken noise helps and he grinds one last time, slow and rough and filthy. 

“ _Please,_ Hugo,” Porter gasps out and it sounds like it’s been torn from him, “fuck me, _please._ ” 

It's muffled by the pillows but Hugo has to suppress a moan anyway, has to squeeze his eyes shut and breathe deeply to keep from coming. Instead he digs his fingers into Porter's hips and drags them back, up, to the perfect angle to see Porter’s ass, the dripping shine of lube. 

“Are you sure?” he asks in English, forces his tone soft because he still can't believe this, deep down. Can't believe Porter would ever let Hugo touch him like this at all, much less fuck his ass. Can't believe Porter would want that from him, even as nothing more than a friendly, safe person to get it from. 

Hugo carefully turns away from that thought, forces away the sharp stab of hurt to deal with later. 

“God, yes,” Porter moans in answer and tries to spread his legs more. It's almost useless, just draws attention to his flushed, swollen cock. It's shiny wet with precum and lube, so red it looks painful, hanging heavy between Porter's shaking thighs. Hugo wants to taste it but he wants this more.

Belatedly he fists his cock, reaches down and uncaps the tube of lube with shaking fingers and wets his cock with it carefully. His hand is still shaking as he guides himself into place, until his dick is nudging against Porter's hole. 

The noise Porter makes when the head of Hugo's cock breaches him is dwarfed by the roaring in Hugo's ears. Despite the stretching he's still tight, hot and almost unbearable in the slow drag between them. It takes everything Hugo has not to just thrust into him, to seat himself balls-deep in Porter's tight ass in one motion. 

He wants to; he wants to thrust into Porter, to fuck him rough and wild until he can't remember anything but Hugo's cock moving inside him. Instead he grits his teeth and moves in gentle, slow grinds. 

Porter's noises are gratifying, anyway. Loud, sobbing moans that almost make it over into words, obscene half-fragments that sometimes sound tantalizing like Hugo's name. His back is shaking and when Hugo lets go of his hips with a hand and spreads it across the valley of Porter's spine Porter cries out. 

Hugo cries out with him because Porter had tightened up around him in shock, suddenly hot and nearly unbearable. He only just refrains from thrusting wildly into that wet tightness. 

“Okay?” he asks, strained. Porter doesn’t respond right away but when Hugo careful strokes down his back with his free hand he slowly relaxes. 

“Please,” Porter mumbles into the quiet and when Hugo pulls back to the point that just the head of his cock is inside him Porter’s voice descends into a moan, long and needy and almost pained. 

“You’re so fucking _tight_ ,” Hugo mumbles and then pushes back in, careful and slow. He’s not sure which language he’s speaking, doesn’t care, the tight heat of Porter’s ass around his dick is almost unbearable. The friction is minimal, lube making fucking obscene noises with every movement, but still almost painful. It reminds Hugo that Porter’s never done this, that Hugo’s cock is the first inside him, that he has this. 

The surge of possessive joy is unexpected and he pulls back harder than he means to, slams forward just as hard. Porter cries out with it and Hugo has a moment of scattered panic, whether he’d hurt Porter and he pauses despite the impulse to just pound in again and again. 

Porter makes another noise – low and wrecked and slutty – and his hips roll back on Hugo’s dick, somehow forcing him deeper. Hugo thrusts up in surprise, a long grind together that makes Porter’s back arch and that noise come again. 

Hugo pulls back and snaps his hips forward again, fucking into Porter rough and quick. When Porter doesn’t complain, just moans and bucks up into it and takes it, he does it again and again. Driving Porter into the mattress, hard and brutal because he can’t hold back, not like this, not with everything he’s ever wanted opening up for his dick so perfectly and loving every moment of it. 

“You love this,” he manages to say, rapid French falling from his lips, almost nonsensical. “You love my cock in you, look at you, _fuck_ , so _good_.”

Porter’s back arches with his words and Hugo leans forward, plasters himself against warm skin and grinds in once, filthy and dragging and slow. Porter cries out, low and agonized an inch from Hugo’s ear and Hugo reaches out, threads his fingers through Porter’s and pins it to the bed for leverage. His free hand he uses to pull Porter’s hips up into his next thrust, fast and brutal once again. 

“It’s so good, you’re all mine like this, Porter, _Porter_ ,” Hugo gasps out between thrusts, frantic French and Porter’s name. Every word makes Porter moan, anguished and hitching his hips back into it. 

He can feel orgasm building in him, the tightness in his stomach and unfurling heavy in his cock. He was never going to last long, not with Porter gasping and eager and moaning under him. Dimly he lets go of Porter’s hip – there are going to be bruises later, he thinks and bites down viciously on his lower lip to keep from coming just at that thought – and reaches for Porter’s cock. 

Porter screams when Hugo’s fingers close around him, screams and bucks his hips like he can’t decide whether to thrust back onto Hugo’s cock or forward to fuck his dick into Hugo’s hand. Hugo decided for him a moment later, snapping his hips forward so hard that it jolts Porter’s cock into Hugo’s hand. 

His dick’s wet, slick with precum and lube running down from his hole. It glides in Hugo’s hand and when he twists it a little, clumsy attempt to jerk Porter off Porter sobs once and comes. 

It takes Hugo by surprise, the sudden tightness of Porter’s ass around him. He cries out with it and thrusts in once, twice. He comes like he’s been hit by a car, so hard and sudden and good all he can do is thrust in one last time and then press his face against Porter’s shoulder and mumble desperately against warm skin. 

“Je t'aime, je t’aime,” he gasps over and over again and prays Porter doesn’t understand. 

It takes him long moments to come back to himself, panting breathing against Porter’ skin. They’ve collapsed, he realizes, falling down and sideways with Hugo’s softening cock still inside Porter. Belatedly he pulls out, trying to be gentle and patting a clumsy hand on Porter’s hip when he makes a displeased noise. 

“Good?” he asks breathlessly. Porter laughs, equally breathless, and reaches down blindly for the blanket. 

“Yeah,” he mumbles when he’s dragged the blanket over both of them. He seems mostly asleep already. 

Hugo considers insisting on clean up; they’re both filthy with sweat and Porter’s covered in come, Hugo can feel it trickling out of his ass where it’s pressed against his soft dick. He considers leaving, too. This isn’t what Porter had asked him for; it’s purely selfish, letting himself stay here and pretend. 

In the end he does neither, just gingerly wraps an arm around Porter’s waist and presses his nose to the slick sweat gathered at the back of his neck. 

He’s allowing himself this too.

* * *

He wakes the next day when the sun is barely peeking over the horizon. 

Porter’s still asleep next to him. Tucked in close to his side, arm thrown over Hugo’s stomach. He looks so peaceful in his sleep, mouth slack, eyelashes trembling every once in a while. Hugo watches him for long minutes and commits the moment to memory guiltily. He feels like he’s stealing, taking something that doesn’t belong to him. This memory of Porter sleeping so sweetly next to him. 

Eventually he slips out of Porter’s hold, slides out of the blankets as carefully as he can. 

The hallways to the bathroom is cold and he has come dried into his pubes, stinging and itchy. He scratches at it absently as he starts the shower and stares at himself in the mirror. 

There’s a faint red bite-mark on his shoulder. Equally faint bruises that look like fingermarks on his hips. His muscles ache when he stretches, back pulling reluctantly. He smells like sweat and come and lube, when he sniffs cautiously. 

When the water’s warm enough he steps into the shower and scrubs briskly. Refuses to think about what’s swirling down the drain. Lathers shampoo between his palms and scrubs it through his hair and refuses to examine why he suddenly hates the scent of artificial flowers so much. 

He’s in the kitchen when he hears the shower go off. 

Porter takes his sweet time; Hugo has the time to say goodbye to his parents as the head off for work, time to make himself toast and sit down on the counter. Time to make his breathing slow and even, time to think about what he means to say. 

Everything goes out the window when Porter shuffles sleepily into the room. 

He’s beautiful, Hugo has always known this, but in the morning sunlight with ruffled wet hair and half-closed sleepy eyes… like this it’s like a punch in the face and Hugo can’t look away. There’s a hickey on his neck, he notes hysterically, small and faint but Hugo can remember putting it there. He’s wearing one of his loose shirts and a pair of Hugo’s pajama pants too, something that highlights his collarbones and makes Hugo’s mouth dry. 

He breathes in and Porter’s eyes flick up to meet his. He smiles and Hugo is so in love with him it aches. 

_I love you,_ he thinks. 

“We shouldn’t do this anymore,” is what comes out instead and Hugo watches his words impact in the way Porter jerks upright, eyes suddenly wide and blank and shocked. 

“…what?” Porter manages, voice rough and deep with sleep. It’s shock, not a lack of understanding, Hugo can tell by the defensive stance his shoulders fall into. 

“We should stop,” Hugo says again and looks down at his toast. He’s not hungry and honestly hadn’t been when he’d made it. Just something for his hands to do. He drops it onto the counter next to him. 

“What the fuck,” Porter says and his voice has fallen low and dangerous and when Hugo looks up in surprise he’s glaring. His expression is poisonous, anger, fists trembling at his sides. He looks bigger suddenly. 

“It’s not fair to us-,” Hugo begins numbly, the tattered remains of the careful, eloquent speech he’d been preparing idly in his head the whole time he’d been listening to Porter in the shower. It’s not enough and Porter’s face goes even tighter, more angry, thunderous. 

He laughs. It’s an ugly sound. 

“It’s not fair,” Hugo repeats, confusion forcing his voice quiet, and Porter rears back like he’d just been slapped. 

“Not _fair_?” he demands and his voice cracks. Hugo stares and with a sense of panic realizes that Porter’s eyes are shining. That they’re wet and it’s entirely possible Porter might be close to crying. 

“Ah,” Hugo says weakly and Porter snorts. It sounds bitter. 

“You know what isn’t fucking fair?” he demands and suddenly he’s in Hugo’s space, trapping him against the counter, jabbing a finger into his chest. 

“I,” Hugo tries to say but the sound doesn’t even have a chance to escape before Porter’s pressing even closer, snarling and wild with anger and still breathtakingly beautiful. Hugo can’t think. 

“It’s not fair to fuck a dude and tell him you love him and then _tell him you don’t want him anymore_.” 

Icy shock washes through Hugo like Porter had just slapped him. Fear, hot on the tail of that, hot and nauseating. He had thought Porter hadn’t understood, he’d _hoped_ , and he’d given himself away-

“I mean,” Porter continues and his tone is so bitingly sarcastic it hurts to hear. “I knew you didn’t _mean_ it but fucking… fucking _come on_ , Hugo.” 

“Wait,” Hugo says but his voice is almost gone and he doesn’t think Porter can even hear him because he’s jabbing Hugo in the chest again. His eyes are still shining and his expression is fierce and humiliated and angry in a way that Hugo doesn’t ever want to see again. 

“It’s not fucking fair,” he repeats and Hugo catches his hand desperately, clutches it tight in his. 

“Fucking, _wait_ ,” he commands loudly and he’s suddenly insanely grateful his parents are gone for the day. 

Porter pauses, breathing loud and harsh in the air. He’s staring at Hugo with mistrust in his eyes. 

“What do you mean, I don’t mean it,” he says slowly. Porter huffs and tries to yank his hand out of Hugo’s grip. When Hugo doesn’t let go he glares but shrugs, doesn’t meet his eyes, looking somewhere past Hugo’s ear. 

“Je t’aime,” he says and his pronunciation is atrocious but the words still make something tight in Hugo’s chest pull even tighter. Rigid and straining against his ribs. “I’m not a fucking idiot, even if I don’t speak French. I know what that fucking means, Hugo. Just like I know that you don’t fucking _mean_ it, so let me _go_.” 

He tries to yank his hand free again and Hugo still doesn’t let him. He’s staring, trying to make the pieces fit in his head, trying to puzzle out Porter’s words into something that makes sense. 

“But,” he says and Porter freezes to stare at him. “I do mean it.” 

Porter continues to stare at him for a moment and then he’s shaking his head. The expression on his face is pure confusion, blank denial. 

“No,” he says, and that goes into Hugo’s chest like a knife. “You can’t,” he continues, “I love _you_ and you’re… we were… fuck, _fuck_.” 

“You what?” Hugo asks and his voice is gone again. His hands have loosened around Porter’s but Porter doesn’t try to get away, just draws himself in and stares wildly at Hugo’s face like he’ll read answers there. 

“I tried to tell you but then… you looked like you didn’t want me to say it and I thought…” he whispers and Hugo’s breath catches. He can’t have misunderstood so badly. He can’t have fucked up like this, they can’t _both_ have, he can’t have been sitting right on top of everything he’s wanted this whole time and just not noticed. “I thought, friends with benefits, I could deal with loving you, but… but it’s not fair, you can’t say you love me when you fuck me and then leave, it’s not fair.” 

“Je t’aime,” Hugo mumbles and Porter jerks in place with a miserable sound. 

“You can’t-,” he begins but Hugo reels him in by the hand he’s holding, wraps a hand around the back of Porter’s head and pulls him close. Porter goes, easier than Hugo had expected, moving under Hugo’s hands like he can’t imagine doing anything else. 

“Je t’aime,” Hugo repeats and his voice is choked up but strong now. It is entirely possible that Porter isn’t the only one suddenly on the verge of tears. “I love you, Porter, I _mean it_ , je t’aime, _I love you_.” 

“Oh fuck,” Porter gasps into the scant space between them and then leans up, kisses Hugo hot and messy and a new kind of desperate. It’s so good and Hugo’s lungs feel tight with emotion, with tears, with want realized, with the brilliant flare of love against his ribs. 

“Je t’aime,” Porter whispers back when he pauses for a moment to breathe, “Je t’aime you stupid fuck, I love you.”


End file.
